CHAPTER XII
MOLLY
Frances’ secret plans did not interfere with her usual tasks. She started in the morning to make her rounds. Molly had been resting and would now be in fine fettle, and the girl expected to call her to the gate when she came down to the corral in which the spare riding stock was usually kept.
Instead of seeing only José Reposa or one of the other Mexicans hanging about, here was a row of punchers roosting along the top rail of the corral fence, and evidently so much interested in what was going on in the enclosure that they did not notice the approach of Captain Rugley’s daughter.
“Better keep off’n the leetle hawse, Ratty!” one fellow was advising the unseen individual who was partly, at least, furnishing the entertainment for the loiterers.
“She looks meek,” put in another, “but believe me! when she was broke, it was the best day’s work Joe Magowan ever done on this here ranch. Ain’t that so, boys?”
“Ratty warn’t here then,” said the first speaker. “He don’t know that leetle Molly hawse and what capers she done cut up—”
“Molly!” ejaculated Frances, under her breath, and ran forward.
At that instant there was a sudden hullabaloo in the corral. Some of the men cheered; others laughed; and one fell off the fence.
“Go it!”
“Hold tight, boy!”